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Post by ¿LÄŊÏ? on Jul 11, 2007 19:01:31 GMT -5
The dappled charger glided over the dewy emerald blades; his long ivory tresses fell in waterfalls down his thick neck as he trotted. Saracen arched his crest, collecting his body as though he were in the ring, performing for a grandstand. But that was gone now. He was on his own, and he actually had to act like a real stallion. Not coddled porcelain that had his mane braided and posed for the photographer. For the pure freedom of it, Saracen gracefully transitioned into a canter, banner fluid behind him. The earth seemed to rock with the three beat gait, but then became thunderous as it soon turned into a gallop; flints pounded the spongy earth. Saracen’s breath came in steady snorts, his neck thrusting forward with every step. Eyes flashed as the wind blew against him, his silver mottled coat stripped of any leather that might have bound him. No metal bit, no girth, no saddle. Nothing. Skidding to a halt on a bluff, Saracen reared up high, testing his freedom, wallowing in the pure glory of it. Stretching his heavy muscles, Saracen pawed at the air, dark nostrils flared. Pointed towards the sky, Saracen whinnied his defiance, crying out his supremacy. He was his own master.
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